


Stronger than Death

by jehane



Category: Les Misérables RPF, West End RPF
Genre: Canon Kiss, Friendly Kissing, Hate Crimes, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Love4Orlando, M/M, Mortal enemies kissing, Office Romance, Polyamory, Referenced violence, The 2016 Orlando Shooting, love is love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-08-28 23:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8467558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/jehane
Summary: The Les Mis. West End cast participate in Love4Orlando.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [esteven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteven/gifts).



> _(TW for references to the Pulse nightclub shooting/hate crimes in Orlando and the tragic deaths, references to homophobia)_

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Who better than mortal enemies kissing, to show people that hate can turn to love, that love always wins?"_

Someone once said that Jean Valjean was the embodiment of love, and Javert the embodiment of hate. 

Neither Peter nor he agreed with this, of course; nothing was ever so simple. According to Hugo, Valjean had been full of hate before he'd met the Bishop, and Jeremy knew that Javert's pursuit of the convict was less about actual hate than a misguided sense of duty and a love of the Law. Then again, someone else might also say that love and hate were flip sides of the same coin, and maybe that was something both Valjean and Javert knew only too well.

It was true that Peter was soft-hearted, generous, sentimental; a truly gentle soul, in the same vein as the good man he played on stage every night. He was unafraid to show affection in the way many men were, possibly even Jeremy himself. By his own admission, he had cried the first time he'd sung "Why God Why" in his Broadway debut and throughout his wedding to his _Miss Saigon_ co-star, the adorable Melanie, and when he had first read the novel on which their show was based, he'd said he had baptised the last pages with helpless grief.

Jeremy himself was hardly the grim, buttoned-up fellow he played every night, but he'd managed to develop more of a defensive shell than Peter. They worked in a mean industry and lived in an even meaner world— it was sometimes dangerous to love, to make yourself vulnerable and to let your affections show, but Peter did it fearlessly. Peter might be older than Jeremy, had worked in this industry for even longer, but somehow he was less guarded, more affectionate, more trusting than Jeremy. It was just how the two of them were made.

One night in Jeremy’s first week on the show, he had gotten through “Javert’s Soliloquy”, climbed off his harness and was crossing the boards backstage, when he almost tripped over his Jean Valjean standing in the wings and crying into his hand.

"Jeez, Pete. Are you okay?"

Peter made a helpless gesture. The low light of the wings haloed his white hair in gold, turned the wet lines on his face to silver. 

"So good," he murmured. "Javert couldn't handle the love after all, could he?"

"I guess not," Jeremy said, not really understanding. Peter clasped his hand in a large, warm, Valjean-like clasp for a long moment before he let Jeremy have it back.

"You're amazing. The first Javert to ever make me cry."

Jeremy rather doubted it, but he discovered that with Peter's wet gaze fixed intently on him found he would agree with anything the man said.

  


  


Jeremy had joined the _Les Mis_ cast last summer, after Cameron had seen him in _Sweeney Todd_ at Harrington’s. He and Karen had just moved into their townhouse in Hampstead, and that together with the new role made it feel like a new chapter in his life was beginning. Javert was a dream role — any performer worth his salt wanted to be in _Les Mis_ — and he believed Cameron when he said the musical would outlive all of them. Of course he'd had vague ambitions of playing Valjean, as indeed any tenor worth his salt would... but that was before he met Peter.

He’d known Peter from the circuit, of course; although Peter had for the most part kept to his side of the pond, he’d had a celebrated stint as Marius on Broadway and then he’d toured as Valjean on the North American 25th anniversary tour, to some international acclaim. Jeremy had admired and envied his career from afar, and could only hope Peter had returned the compliment.

In person, Peter was disgustingly talented; he was handsome in the leading-man way that Jeremy knew he wasn't, he had a perfect coloratura voice, and was a genuinely good soul. And he’d been born to play Jean Valjean — he had inhabited the anguished, deeply compassionate convict like nobody else did, not even the original leading man Colm Wilkinson himself, in Jeremy’s opinion anyway. Peter would disagree, of course; he’d confessed that when he had been Colm's Marius on a tour in Shanghai he’d behaved like a completely star-struck fanboy. 

And that was the sheer humility of the man: an innocent generosity of spirit, an unguardedness, that made Jeremy want to do gallant things for him, like wrap him in blankets, and shelter him under an umbrella, and to hail taxis for him so he wouldn’t get wet in the freezing London rain. All of which Jeremy indeed found himself doing, in the way he always did for his mum and for Karen, and the other girls before her.

"You're sweet on him," Karen teased him, and then, "That's okay, cariad, 'cause he is surely very sweet."

That Peter was, and so was his lady, who took to Karen like a house on fire. Whenever Melanie was in town they would always have dinner, just the four of them. When Melanie was out of town, for _Allegiance_ rehearsals and then its Broadway run, they'd opened their home to that one displaced American expatriate, and as the cold, wet winter became spring, there'd be nights when Peter chose to curl up on the camp bed in their spare room rather than make the trek back to his poky service apartment in Holborn. 

For some reason, Peter seemed not to mind hanging out with him, even outside work. Peter joked it was because they were both expats, after all, even though Jeremy had lived in the UK for more than fifteen years. So they'd go out, one American on exchange with British Equity, exploring the country at the side and under the firm guidance of an old London hand. Jeremy took Peter to the pub to try to sell him on the uniquely British joys of warm lager on tap, dragged him to watch the Gunners play and to try to win him over to the side of proper football, and even accompanied him to Her Majesty's to see first the amazing John Owen-Jones and then young Ben Foster tackle the iconic role which they had both played across the continent from each other. 

One night they’d gone to the Ministry of Sound with some of their younger cast-mates, which should have convinced them they were too old to go clubbing: the drinks were too expensive, and nobody tried to pick any of them up. When they tried their luck at Heaven under the historic Charing Cross station the next weekend, Zoe had told Jeremy that he had glowered so much that all the cute boys had stayed away from Peter like the plague.

“Cock-block,” Zoe had said, snickering, and Jeremy protested, “I didn’t see anyone hitting on anyone!”

“That’s ‘cause you’ve got eyes for no one else,” she said, sweetly and patted him on the arm. Jeremy rolled those eyes at her; she was being ridiculous, but at the same time, if Peter wanted, he'd gladly block any unwanted cocks from his friend any day.

“No more clubbing,” Peter agreed. “For the old men, anyway.” 

  


  


When Karen was back in Wales visiting family or filming for BBC Wales or out of town on rehearsals, they’d spend Sundays together watching the telly. Peter was determined to watch every single movie adaptation and stage recording of _Les Miserables_ , and declared that the 1978 version, with the gentle, cerebral Richard Jordan, was his favourite. And then Peter would curl up on the camp bed or their sofa and sleep until it was time to head back to the Queens'.

In the circumstances, it wasn't a surprise, exactly, when Jeremy woke up that Sunday morning to the sound of the front door bell being rung incessantly, and discovered Peter on his doorstep. What was only somewhat more unusual was that Peter was red-eyed and struggling to hold back tears.

Jeremy said, again, "Jeez, Pete. Are you okay? What's happened?"

"Oh my God, how horrible is this," Peter said and thrust the newspaper under Jeremy's nose. 

Jeremy squinted at the _Independent_ headline. " _Orlando gay nightclub shooting – 49 people dead_. Oh, fuck." 

He scanned the article: a place of love so much like the one he'd just been to with his friends, overtaken one night by blood, by bullets, by so much hate. In the morning chill, his bare legs prickled with the heat of helpless anger. 

He was very aware of Peter, shivering a little in a t-shirt and track pants that he'd probably slept in, breathing unevenly as he tried to regain his composure.

"They were just kids having a good time," Peter said. "And this guy just mowed them down. This one kid managed to call his mom before he died… Jesus, it's horrible."

Jeremy wrestled Peter into the relative warmth of the house. He sat Peter in a chair at his kitchen table and put some coffee on. He wished Karen were here, and not in Glasgow with the Masters of the House concert tour, because she'd know how to comfort Peter, or she'd at least keep Jeremy company in not knowing what to say. He poured two cups and handed one to his friend wordlessly.

Peter dried his eyes and blew his nose. His hair stood straight up on his head, and he looked more fetching than any middle-aged man at the crack of dawn had any right to. Now that was an awkward thought; almost as awkward as thinking about Peter falling apart over this newspaper headline first thing in the morning and then getting into a taxi or on the tube from Holborn to come find him. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, eventually. “It’s 4 am in New York, I didn’t want to wake Mel, and I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Jeremy wondered if he should engage in some rough-housing hijinks, or pretend to stand on his head — that was always good for a laugh. He did neither of those things; entirely awkwardly, he settled for patting Peter on the shoulder. He'd thought Peter was still cold, but he felt the warmth of his friend’s body curl up through the thin jacket fabric and the thinner cotton of his shirt.

"I don’t mind, Pete, really. The world can be horrible; you just need to not let it get to you like this." 

Peter put his hand over Jeremy's and squeezed. "Yeah, I know. Mel says I get too worked up sometimes. But I don't get how people can hate other people so much. Sometimes I don't understand anything about this fucking world, Jez."

Jeremy squeezed back. He'd forgotten how large and warm Peter's hand was. "I dunno either," he said slowly. "People sometimes hate people they don't understand? And then they get violent because they don't know what else to do with their hate." 

Peter listened to this intently, and Jeremy felt relief that he'd managed to comfort his friend after all. The feeling was short-lived, though, when Peter's expressive mouth tightened again. "They just wanted to love who they love," that good man said, unsteadily. "Why should there be hate for that?"

Jeremy found himself reaching out to put his arms around his friend. He wanted to say, _Don’t cry_ , and _It’ll be okay_ , even though he knew Peter was a grown man and had no time for empty platitudes from the likes of him.

"There shouldn't be," was what he said instead. "There should be more love in the world." 

He hugged Peter fiercely, surprising himself, and even more surprisingly, Peter hugged him back.

  


  


Fortunately they didn’t need to get through a show that Sunday, although there was an afternoon rehearsal with the new cast thanks to the upcoming cast change scheduled for the next day. Jeremy took Peter to brunch on the Heath, and walked him to the tube station after. 

When Jeremy emerged from his home a second time to head to the Queen’s, rainbow flags were already out all across the West End. 

After rehearsal, they’d had a proper send-off for Bradley and Phil at the Duke of Wellington around the corner from the Queen’s, where the rainbow flag had always been a proud fixture. Tonight it was being flown at half-mast. It seemed as if half of the London theatre community was out on the streets to embrace and stand with each other.

“Such a shame,” said Kevin, the barman who covered their regular spot at the back of the pub. The burly chap was wearing red-rimmed eyes with his usual leathers; he’d complimented Jeremy on the rainbow-coloured tulle skirt Jeremy had decided to wear over his jeans. “It could’ve been anywhere, y’know? It could have been _here_. I wasn’t sure I could face up to work today… but I thought I owed it to the lads to come in, and here I am.”

“I know the feeling,” Jeremy said as he took the tray of pints. He handed them around, and everyone drank — to Bradley, and Phil, and the 49.

“I’m going to miss you lot,” Bradley announced. His girlfriend Amy was sitting in his lap; he had one arm around her, and his free hand was clasped around Jo’s across the table, in the way that Grantaire had doubtless dreamed of in all the taverns in all the worlds. 

Jo said, “We’re going to miss you too, you tosser. I’m not sure I can get Chris to kiss me on the barricade.” He picked Bradley’s hand up and kissed its knuckles, and Amy laughed.

“You should totally kiss him, y’know. He might be a handful, but he makes it worth your while in the end,” Bradley said to Chris Cowley, who was hovering uncertainly at the edges of their group.

The new Enjolras gave him a wan smile. “Thanks, mate, I’m just learning to spell everyone’s names. Maybe we can save the spit-swapping for next week, am I right?” 

“You’re fine,” Peter said, firmly, clapping their newest colleague on the shoulder. The lads hollered, variously, _“Daddy to the rescue,”_ and _“Yes, Monsieur le Maire,”_ — they were all pretty drunk by then — but they settled down under the easy authority of Jean Valjean.

Kevin was handing out rainbow pins at the bar. Jeremy picked up a handful for the Les Mis crew; on a whim, he reached out to Peter, snagged him by the wrist, and pinned one to his shirt.

“Thanks,” Peter said. “And thanks for earlier today. I’m not sure why this hit me so hard, but it just did, you know? You’d think I’d be used to how fucked up my country can be.”

“Nobody could be used to something like this,” said Jeremy. The rainbow pin stood like a spot of defiant colour against Peter’s white shirt. His fingers retained the warmth from Peter’s skin. He kind of regretted the stupid skirt, but Peter seemed to like it, and at least it went with the pin, if nothing else.

  


  


The idea was first mooted before the Monday show. Chris Key, their Associate Director, came to their pre-show circle with clip-board and hair that looked like it hadn’t been slept in for 48 hours. At first Jeremy had assumed the cast change had been even more stressful than usual, but it seemed Chris had something else on his always-teetering plate, which he wanted to share with the cast.

“I wanted to let you guys know,” Chris said, briskly. “Theatre UK has just reached out. There’s going to be a video, something in support of the Pulse shooting in Orlando. They want anyone who wants to be a part of it — West End, touring casts, the entire theatre community in the UK. I told them of course we would do it, right?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Peter said, and the others joined in in applause. “What’s everyone else doing?” 

“The _Sound of Music_ cast is going to do ‘All You Need is Love’, and I think _Kinky Boots_ is making some dance tribute. But I think mostly people are going to record supportive messages.” Chris looked down at his clip-board. “I don’t think we can make a recording of ‘All You Need is Love’ with cast change happening, so a supportive message it will have to be.”

“What kind of supportive messages?” Craig asked. “ _You can’t kill us? Love always wins_?”

“ _Love is love_ ,” Chris said. “That’s the message. Love’s stronger than anything; all types of love, love in all times and in all places, everyone’s love, is just that, it’s love.”

“We should do a kiss,” Jo said, slyly. “I bet the _Priscilla Queen of the Desert_ crew are going to do a kiss.”

Zoe and Craig looked at each other in the _Marius and Cosette totally kiss enough_ way, and Chris Cowley narrowed his eyes at Jo.

“I’m wondering whether this is going to be one of those new-guy hazing things I get to do to the _next_ Enjolras…”

“C’mon, guys, nobody is hazing anybody,” Peter said firmly. The low lights of the stage wings slid across his broad chest, the muscles Jeremy had seen a hundred times under the ragged Toulon costume. “Anything that needs to be done — your first volunteer’s always going to be Jean Valjean.”

Zoe said, “No, I agree. Daddy should be the one to do it.”

Jo pretended to straighten the lapels of his peasant costume and said, innocently, “I’m not sure it makes much sense for Grantaire to be kissing Valjean rather than Enjolras!” 

Jeremy frowned at the ridiculous suggestion — the lad was always full of it, and too handsome for his own good — and then the thought came to him like a bolt from the blue. "It should be Javert,” he announced, before his brain caught up with his mouth. 

There was a beat of silence, in which Jeremy found himself on the receiving end of twenty shocked gazes. Well, it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to being stared at by a thousand people night after night.

"It makes so much sense," Jeremy said, as if he weren't frantically spinning his wheels, waiting for the right words to pop into his head. Where did this idea come from, anyway? — it was even crazier than his usual ideas, that was for sure. Was it because of the look of relief on Cowley, maybe, or the confusion on pretty-boy Jo, or the speculation on Chris Key? Or the memory of Zoe talking about cock-blocking? 

"Look," he continued, and thank fuck, there were words after all; "it's all the more meaningful if it's us kissing, I mean, us as Valjean _and Javert_ , who spend decades as mortal enemies. Who better than mortal enemies kissing, to show people that hate can turn to love, that love always wins?"

Twenty riveted pairs of eyes, and the only one that mattered he couldn't read — blue and shuttered for the first time since he'd known Peter.

Then: "That's bloody fantastic," Chris Key said, and "Fuck yeah!" said Jo and Zoe together, and the hooting and clapping from their rowdy cast almost raised the roof.

Jeremy made himself look at Peter steadily. "You up for it?" he asked.

Peter ran his hand through Valjean's long hair, and finally smiled the brilliant smile that belonged to no one else. "Yeah, okay," he said, and held out his hand. When Jeremy tried to shake, like co-workers and professionals who might have to kiss each other on the job, he pulled Jeremy so close that Jeremy could feel his warm, even breath, could almost count the long lashes on his cheek.

He continued, "I'm not totally sure it's hate, though. What if the Inspector has always loved Valjean?"

"Well, then maybe he'll finally find out what that love really means," said Jeremy. He found he couldn't wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Jeremy get down to business.

After curtain on a Monday night, the cast tended to disperse — it was still too early in the week to tie one on, people usually preferring to leave the major drinking to the weekend. Chris Cowley had, however, asked Jo out for a pint, possibly on the principle that the best defence was a good offence. 

Jeremy was aware Peter was still holding his hand from their final bows. They shared a pointed look, and as the others streamed past and then ahead of them down the stairs, Peter drew him gently past the press of bodies and across the corridor to Peter's dressing room. 

Jeremy threw himself onto the poky couch. How many times had they both sat here, side by side, in their finale costumes and make-up, either too wired from the show to stop talking, or in companionable silence? This awkward tension was something else. It was making Jeremy notice how Peter's Old Valjean hair curled softly over his collar and how he almost wanted to stroke it. He'd never been so conscious of the splay of Peter's legs, right beside him, in their shiny black boots, nor had he ever been so self-conscious about how he was himself sweating — with the usual oppressive summer heat, and with this new thing that was between them.

At last, Peter turned to look at him. "So," he said, mildly. "It seems we're doing this."

"Seems we are," Jeremy said. He met Peter's eyes with some difficulty: his friend looked as awkward as he felt. "You ever kissed a guy before?"

Peter thought about it and his gaze grew unfocused. "Yeah, a while back. Things got kind of intense on the _Miss Saigon_ set — it was my first real gig, I was just a kid then, I had so much to learn — and the vibe between Chris and John Thomas is _very_ intense? And Keith Kirk was such good guy, I leaned on him a bit, and we became pretty close." Peter shrugged, smiling with the memory, and Jeremy felt an uncomfortable sensation in his chest. "How about you?"

"Yeah, me too." Honesty, and friendship, made him continue: "For work. Not when it meant anything."

"This is work," Peter pointed out, sensibly, one corner of his mouth curling upwards.

"Yeah, but it's not like it won't mean something," Jeremy said, before he could stop himself.

To his credit, and fortunately for Jeremy's ego, Peter did not disagree, or laugh it off. Instead he put his hand on Jeremy's shoulder, fixed him with that look, and said, "No, you're right. It does mean something. We're buddies, Jez, and there's something else there, too."

Jeremy found his throat had suddenly gotten very dry. He wasn't sure what Peter meant, or rather he was afraid he knew exactly what Peter might mean. He felt the press of Peter's thigh alongside his, felt the weight of Peter's hand on his shoulder, felt the import in Peter's meaningful blue gaze. 

He raised his eyebrows at his friend, but Peter had moved on to a different topic. Looking off into the distance, he murmured, "Mel's always said that she'll kill me if I so much as look at another woman funny, you know? But she liked Keith, and I know she likes you, Jez." 

He turned back to Jeremy, handsome face alight with that broad, irresistible smile. "So, it's work, and for a good cause, and it actually means something. What's there not to like?"

"What's there not to like," Jeremy echoed. What could go wrong? He didn't want to think about whether he might not like it, or, more worryingly , like it far too much.

  


* * *

  


When he got home, Jeremy called Karen, as he always did. They hadn't been together for the decades that Mel and Peter had; Karen’s parents still insisted on calling them newlyweds. That didn’t matter though; when he'd met her on the circuit, he'd felt as if he'd known her his whole life. 

She listened when he told her about the Theatre UK plans, and she laughed when he told her about having to step in on Jo Parsons and the planned kiss. Then she said, "Go ahead, kiss whoever you like, if it's for activism." She paused. "But that's not why you're calling me, right?"

"No," Jeremy said. He could still feel the clasp of Peter's hand, see the glaze of those blue eyes, could feel Peter's shirt collar, warm from his skin. "No, it's not."

Karen was silent for a moment. "You like him, don't you, cariad?"

"I love _you_ ," was what Jeremy decided to go with, and it was true, it would always be true.

"I love you too," she said. "I'll always love you. Just you please be careful now, whatever you decide."

  


* * *

  


Chris Key came backstage before the Tuesday show to tell them the shoot was scheduled for after the show the next day, and to please prepare themselves.

He looked at Jeremy's face under his Toulon make-up, and then said, in a slightly different tone of voice, "You chaps don't have to go the whole hog if you don't have to. A message of support, that's really all we need."

"What's 'the whole hog'?" Peter wanted to know, and then looked at Jeremy as well in realisation and said, "Oh no, we're totally doing this! With tongue, if we have to!"

"You really don't have to! Or you don't have to do it with _tongue_ ," Chris said, and that set the tone for the whole show. 

Somehow everything seemed slightly off-kilter that night: Jeremy wasn’t entirely sure why, but Javert's dynamic with Valjean was different. It was as if the prospect of the kiss, of Javert finally either giving in to his feelings for Valjean or exploring the flip side of their enmity-filled relationship, was infecting all their scenes. Their Confrontation had more of an edge to it, both Valjean and Javert seemingly reacting with even deeper emotion, and after the interval, when they met at the barricades, there was a heat that had never been there before. Or maybe it had, and Jeremy had just never noticed it before, or not admitted it to himself.

When he climbed on the parapet, he felt a moment of true anguish, as if he was indeed teetering on a precipice, and perhaps he was.

Peter took his hand firmly during the curtain calls, and Jeremy felt as if he had finally anchored himself on his friend's secure strength. 

By mutual agreement, they made their way back to Peter's room, to the same configuration of couch and awkwardness. Jeremy drank from his bottle of water so he didn't have to meet Peter's gaze.

At last, Peter said: "I asked Mel, and she said that we should go ahead. In fact she said, _'Didn't someone tell Jeremy when he joined the show: 'Don't be shit?' You guys just make sure you're not shit.'_ "

Jeremy snorted and looked across; Peter was making a face that looked disgustingly adorable. "And what did you say to that?" 

"I told her, _'Since when am I ever shit?'_ And then I said, _'Don't answer that'_ , and she couldn't stop laughing and I had to hang up." 

"Karen laughed too," Jeremy said, slowly. For some reason he couldn't bring himself to tell Peter what Karen had said afterwards. 

He felt humbled by the Lockyers’ easy familiarity. Maybe Mel knew Peter would never be at risk, would never lose himself in love for any other man, despite what had happened with Keith so long ago. Or maybe it was because of that, who knew. After Peter had told him about Keith, Jeremy had taken to Google, and discovered Peter’s former John Thomas was now a respected professor of theatre arts at the University of Pittsburgh and was still a stunningly attractive man. Not that Jeremy was jealous or insecure or anything, of course.

"Right then," Peter said briskly. "We better rehearse so we won't be shit for real. If we embarrass ourselves when we're taping, I'll never hear the end of it."

"Okay," said Jeremy, swallowing. "Should we stand? Or should we sit down?"

"Lighting'll be better if we stand. The angle, too. Come here," Peter grinned, and held out his arms.

Jeremy squared his shoulders and stepped into the circle of Peter's embrace. Peter hung his arms loosely around Jeremy's body, one big hand braced against his back. This close, Jeremy could see the dilation of pupils, the quirk of Peter's full mouth, the pulse beating quickly in the side of his throat. 

Jeremy wondered if this would go better if he closed his eyes, and in the instant before he did that he saw Peter close his eyes as well.

The first contact was too tentative: they were careful not to bump noses or chins, and their lips barely brushed against each other's — the merest pressure, there and then away. 

Jeremy cleared his throat. When he opened his eyes he saw Peter staring at him, his eyes a glaze of blue.

Jeremy said, in a paroxysm of awkwardness, "Was that too weird? Does that kind of dynamic make sense for them? I mean, they're virgins, after all, they're not going to suck each other's faces off."

Peter said, taking a slow step backward, "Are they really virgins? Weren't there some women in the bagne or in Montreuil?"

"Read your Hugo. There were no women in the bagne," Jeremy said. "Lots of men, though, and prison sex was probably a thing back then, poor devils, so they mightn't have been virgins, or only virgins in the technical hetero sense."

"I don't think our boys are virgins,” Peter said. “Or at least Javert wouldn't be. He was a young policeman in a seaside town full of sex workers, right?”

Jeremy frowned, thinking. “Doubt it. Remember how he got with the Lovely Ladies and with Fantine? That’s not how you’d react if you were a regular patron.”

Peter wrinkled his nose. “Okay, new approach then. Javert’s always so angry, right? I mean, the Confrontation and their barricades interaction are totally full of grabbing and rage."

"Grabbing and rage?" Jeremy echoed. "Fine, let's try that."

He grasped the back of Peter's shirt and reeled him in vigorously and captured his mouth in a kiss that stole his breath with fierce pressure, a raging kiss from the inspector who wanted to fling himself upon and arrest and then devour his convict.

It was savage, and consuming, and not at all virginal. Peter was panting when they broke away; he pushed his fingers against Jeremy's chin. "Damn, I thought you _didn't_ want to suck my face off!"

Jeremy winced. His own heart was pounding brutally. He'd never kissed anyone like that before. He was pretty sure Javert had never kissed anyone like that before, nor wanted to, at least until he'd met Jean Valjean. He cupped a hand around Peter's face. "Sorry. Jesus, that was too rough. Did I hurt you?"

"Nah, it's okay." Peter rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth and gave Jeremy a small smile. "Definitely too angry, even for the Inspector, although it was actually weirdly hot. I don't know, maybe it should be sexier, slower. C'mon, Javert has always had such a thing for Valjean, right? Maybe he really just wants to love someone, and God knows Valjean has love enough for him." 

Jeremy said, slowly, "You said that, before — how Valjean showed him love at the end, and how Javert couldn't handle it."

"Did I say that? But, yeah, that's what Javert's Soliloquy is about, right? What he really wants to sing then is what Valjean sang in Valjean's Soliloquy: _how could he let this man touch his soul and teach him love_ , and when he can't do it, he throws himself off the bridge."

There was only one thing Jeremy could say to this, of course.

"Teach him, then," he said , and Peter's Valjean wrapped his arms around his policeman; his eyes slid half-shut, and he reached up to kiss Jeremy, slowly and tenderly, and in that moment Jeremy held Valjean, white-haired and gentle and full of enough love to to rescue one misguided soul from the brink of self-destruction. 

God help them, Javert kissed back; _Jeremy_ kissed back, a soft, wet slide of lips and then tongue. Peter leaned into their embrace and Jeremy took Peter's weight in his arms. Instead of drawing gallantly away, he found himself deepening the kiss, the same way Javert might if given this same chance, Peter following his lead, the kiss becoming messier, hungrier, more and more intense, until they were gasping into each other's mouths and forced to come up for air.

They took a couple of shuddering breaths, holding onto each other as if they'd fall over if they let go.

"So," said Jeremy. His voice trembled shamefully. "That was quite a lesson."

Peter said, "That it was. _You're_ something else, Jez." He looked and sounded as shaky as Jeremy felt. "I can tell Melanie we _absolutely_ won't be shit."

With some effort, Jeremy let go of him and took a step back. "Actually, Karen didn't just laugh. She also told me to be careful."

"Oh boy," said Peter. "Why's that?"

"She didn't say, but she didn't have to. She thinks I like you, Pete, she wants me to watch myself with you. She knows how theatre people are, she doesn't want me to get hurt."

"I'm not theatre people. And I like you, too, I told you that yesterday, and you acted as if you knew and as if you were okay with it, more than okay. So if you're gonna watch yourself with me, and break my heart, you'd better tell me now."

Peter was still smiling, but his eyes were too-bright at the corners, and Jeremy couldn't stand it. He reached out and cupped Peter's handsome face in both his hands, and their noses aligned and their lips met, and there was the softness of Peter's tongue and the sweetness of his breath, and he kissed his friend until his ears rang and his heart pounded and he could barely hold himself up. 

When they parted, Jeremy found that his eyes were wet. What the hell, he _never_ cried: not when he sang, not when he got married, not even over Victor bloody Hugo. 

"Sonofa... Damn it," he said, fighting to catch his breath. "Damn it, Pete, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Peter said, softly. He was breathing quickly too, his mouth swollen from kissing, hair in disarray, and Jeremy never wanted to let him go. "Let's go again."

Jeremy did, and clasped Peter in his arms.

  


* * *

  


After Wednesday's show, they did it for the cameras.

They stood with their arms around each other in full costume. Jeremy said his line and bent his head towards Peter, Peter reached across and Jeremy met him, softly, gently -- as familiar as two adversaries who had known each other for more than half their lives, as two men who were two sides of the same coin. As two friends who knew love was stronger than hate, stronger than death, was the strongest thing of all.

Everyone cried: Zoe cried, Craig cried, their cameraman Mike cried, and even Chris had to wipe a tear away. But both Jeremy and Peter were laughing when they parted, full of joy and love and each other.

"Perfect," said Chris, a little unsteady. "Let me edit a bit before sending this to them, but we're good, we're done."

Jeremy and Peter looked each other in the eye.

"Not done yet," Peter said, and slid his arms around Jeremy and bent him over the table to kiss him again in front of everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gorgeous Keith Byron Kirk [played Chris' best friend John Thomas](http://variety.com/1995/legit/reviews/miss-saigon-3-1200439946/) in Peter's 1995 L.A. run of _Miss Saigon_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to N. for the beta!
> 
> Esteven, thank you so much for your help on recent betas and consults; I am so grateful, and sincerely hope you enjoy this very rare pairing, who, as you rightly point out, gave fandom the canon kiss ;)
> 
> From Song of Solomon 8:6:  
>  _Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame. Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away._
> 
> The fic closely tracks real events: [the 2016 Pulse nightclub shooting and its aftermath](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2016_Orlando_nightclub_shooting), where an LGBT nightclub in Florida was attacked by a gunman; 49 people were killed. Theatre UK shot a [tribute video](http://www.digitalspy.com/showbiz/theatre/news/a798221/watch-uk-theatre-stars-solidarity-orlando-lgbt-community-shooting/) comprising supportive video messages from the casts and crews of many West End productions; on behalf of Les Mis, Peter Lockyer and Jeremy Secomb decide to show solidarity with Orlando and the LGBT community by having Valjean and Javert kiss for the cameras. This is the story behind that famous smooch.


End file.
